


burnin’ end of a midnight cigarette

by orphan_account



Category: Power Rangers Turbo
Genre: Angst, Broken Promises, Dark, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time<br/>But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind” - <em>Whiskey Lullaby</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	burnin’ end of a midnight cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> **Please mind the tags and take them as warning** \- if the idea of a Ranger using alcohol to cope bothers you, I suggest you don’t proceed forward with reading this story. This is not happy or fluffy, and it deals with some serious issues. I don’t condone the use of alcohol as a coping method - in fact, I wrote this story as a way of coping _instead_ of turning to alcohol when I knew I wouldn’t be able to drink responsibly. 
> 
> I’ve chosen to make this story anonymous precisely because of how personal in nature it is, to me, but my hope in sharing it is to remind us all that no matter how it might feel at the time, we are not alone, and that there are other ways to deal with those feelings than self-destructive behaviors.
> 
> Title and summary are both taken from the song “Whiskey Lullaby”, written by Bill Anderson and Jon Randall, performed by Alison Krauss and Brad Paisley.

The first sip burns; it always does, but he's learned to ignore it. After the third or fourth it won't matter anyway, the pleasant, warm numbness seeping into his mind and body replacing anything else. It has its drawbacks. He'll hate himself later, but he hates himself enough right now, and the trade off of not feeling for just a little while makes it worth it, in his book.

He just wants the hollow ache in his chest to go away, for the voices in his brain shut up long enough for him to loosen the stiff muscles of tensed shoulders and ~~pass out~~ sleep without being plagued by nightmares.

So he lets the first shot slide down like fire, and doesn't wait for it to stop before throwing back the second one. He learned quickly to stop at four, to let the alcohol catch up and then gauge whether he needs more after that. Some days he does; some days he doesn't. Lately, it's been more of the former than the latter.

He'd gone weeks, after the first time of making himself sick, claiming to have a stomach bug to anyone who had bothered to ask; most people hadn't. The second time, it was easier to ignore the voice telling him it was a bad idea, and the third time had come a lot sooner. Now he couldn't even think about going to sleep without at least one shot of whatever cheap ass liquor he'd managed to get hold of that week.

It should have bothered him more than it did. He knew that, but he just couldn't bring himself to care any more. The ability to not-feel, for just a little while, was too nice. He ignored the part of his brain that pointed out he still felt plenty, but none of it mattered through the haze of alcohol.

It wasn't a problem if it helped him feel better, right?

And it's not like anyone else gave a damn about what he was doing. No one even noticed. No one was there to notice. They'd all left him, and that was the problem, wasn't it? That was the source of the screaming void inside of him. Everyone left, even after making promises to him; he knew better now than to believe any of them. He'd been burned too many times to think he meant enough to anyone for them to stay, that anyone cared enough about him to make the effort of keeping promises.

He was alone, and maybe he was better off that way. No more broken promises, and alcohol could fix the rest.

The fog inside his head started lifting - or maybe it was settling in, blocking out the jagged shapes looming there, blunting the edges that cut him raw. This, this was why he kept coming back to the bottle, regardless of how he would feel in the morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth and that hollow reminder that he was still alone, always alone.

He stopped after his fourth shot, his hands still steady. They wouldn't be, for much longer, which was another reason to drink as quickly as possible. It was a pain having to clean up the mess of spilled alcohol, and he didn't like his room smelling of vodka or tequila or rum or whatever the hell was in tonight's bottle. Whiskey, maybe, if he was judging the dark amber color correctly.

He'd have to see if there were any blue liquors. Maybe those would suit him better.

The thought made him laugh, and he knew, at least for now, that he would be okay. It didn't matter that no one loved him, it didn't matter that he was never good enough for anyone. He'd been a replacement from the start, and he'd been just as easily discarded in the end, and he should have known that, should have seen what had happened to all the others who had come before him.

He wasn't special. He wasn't unique. He served no greater purpose in life except to fill a temporary vacancy.

And damn it all, but he had felt so alive, felt so loved and needed, and...

He poured out another shot, only sloshing a little onto the counter. It would dry by the morning. This one went down quick and easy, and he contemplated another, but the bottle felt too heavy in his hands despite being half empty, and his fingers felt thick around the shot glass.

He could always come back for more later. For now, he would have to settle for what little comfort he could find.

Anything more than that wasn't anything he deserved.


End file.
